


Descending Into My Skin

by gardenofstardust



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-08
Updated: 2011-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 13:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/250587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardenofstardust/pseuds/gardenofstardust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The unthinkable happens to Kurt, and he finds himself throwing it all away. As he navigates the maze of his horror, he finds comfort in the small moments of trust his loved ones offer him. Still, he may not come around so easily. Oneshot. KurtxBlaine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Descending Into My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All original Glee characters, story, and affiliated media are copyright (c) 2009 by Fox Studios. Kashii Ai, Cassie Drey, and any associated names/companies in no way own the Glee series.
> 
> Descending Into My Skin story copyright (c) 2011 by Kashii Ai, Cassie Drey, and any associated names/companies  
> ___________________________________
> 
> A/N: Uuuum. This is my first ever Glee fanfiction. I always feel weird and self-conscious when I write stuff for a new fandom. My writing is so strange. DX
> 
> New readers, welcome to my screwed up head. I hope you like my Glee oneshot~
> 
> Thank you to Shinigamishi for beta'ing. :3
> 
> Anyway, enjoy~!

   It was these small moments that Kurt was reminded why he liked Blaine in the first place. Every small smile, look, and touch was laden with meaning, support, strength. This was the boy who’d shown him how to stand strong against bullies, had held his hand when he’d lost his bird. Had taught him courage.

   Blaine sighed, “I wanna know what’s up with this weather.”

   “Hey, it’s Ohio. The weather is always ADD.”

   “Fair point. You excited?”

   “Yes!”

   “Almost there.”

   They pulled into the shelter parking lot, and watched the water fall, as they ran into the building, laughing and splashing and falling in love with the rain. Kurt sighed, and ran a hand through his wet hair, simultaneously mourning the loss of perfect quaffing and loving the way droplets slid so perfectly away. Blaine kissed his cheek, and slid fingers down Kurt’s arm to grab his hand. Kurt smiled as he was pulled to the front desk, where a lady with long white hair and glasses stared at the young gay couple like they’d each grown a second head.

   Kurt hesitated, then took a deep breath, “I’m here to adopt a kitten.”

   “Alright.” The woman rifle through the file she was holding, pulled a few papers, set the folder down, flopped the papers next to her computer, “Looking for anything in particular?”

   “Do you have any pure breeds right now?”

   The woman nodded, “We have a beautiful calico Persian. Very sweet cat.”

   Kurt nodded eagerly, “Perfect.”

   The woman nodded once again, and her eyes fell on their linked hands, which they were resting on the counter, before she turned, and beckoned them to follow. Kurt pulled Blaine this time. They were led back to a plain cream hallway, where the boys could hear the barks, shrieks, whines of dogs. The corridor smelled of dusty fur and warm human sweat. The paint was chipped and cracked, and the tiled floor was uneven, so that Kurt watched his feet as they walked. The woman stopped at a door with a sign labeled CATS, and opened it for them.

   Kurt looked around, as the woman slipped past him and went to a cage. The two boys followed, and were presented with a tiny, long-haired kitten, curled into a fluffy ball at the back of the cage. According to the name card, the kitten was a female who the shelter had named Jonsi, and she was just over the six-week mark. She was white, with large patches of brown and black over her head and body. She stared at them with huge blue eyes, and flicked her luxurious tale anxiously.

   Kurt smiled, “She’s so cute.”

   “Would you like to pet her?” The woman asked.

   “Sure.”

   The woman opened the cage with a metallic clink, and Jonsi shrank back, laying her ears flat against her head. Kurt moved forward, and gently held a hand out and made eye contact with the kitten. She shied back from his hand, so he dropped his eyes, keeping his hand out. He sensed Jonsi hesitating, before he felt something soft brush against his hand. He looked up, and found the kitten rubbing her cheek against his fingers. He smiled again, and petted her gently. She struck up a surprisingly loud purr, before she mewled softly.

   “Ah, she’s so adorable.”

   “Yeah.” Blaine moved up beside him—it seemed the woman had left, “I think she likes you.”

   “Maybe.” Kurt reached over with his other hand, and gently tried to pick Jonsi up. She didn’t protest, didn’t even squirm, simply allowed the boy to hold her against his chest and continue to pet her, “I think this is the one.”

   Blaine smiled, watching boy and cat, “Yeah.”

   “Of course, I’ll have to change her name, to Coco Chanel, or Louie Vaton.”

   Blaine laughed, “I like Coco Chanel.”

   “Then it is.”

   “Gosh, I fear for when you have children, darling.”

   “Please. I’ll make sure my kids have timeless names. Like Sarah. Or Brandon. Or Kurt junior.”

   “Uh-huh. C’mon, let’s go talk to the lady.”

   They returned to the front, and Kurt held Coco close, so that she wouldn’t squirm away and escape. Blaine brought the namecard, and Kurt adopted the first cat he’d had in a long time. The year before his mother had died, his childhood cat had been run over with a car. Kurt resolved that this time, his cat would remain inside and be doted on. Coco, much like her new master, would take no mistreatment, and put up quite a fight to being stuck in the cat carrier Kurt had bought. He came out with several scratches and a bite, none of which hurt very much.

   On the way home, Blaine smiled and watched and fell farther in love as Kurt cooed to his new pet.

 

   The next day, in the Hummel household, Blaine watched with the same devoted intent. Finn sat with them, lost among the jumble of mathematics homework.

   “Do you believe in eternal love?”

   The question caught Kurt off-guard, and he looked over his shoulder at Blaine stretched across a chair, soaked in the sun that fell through the kitchen. He watched the large hazel eyes, the black waves of hair, the smiled he’d come to memorize. He thought about what forms love could take, and the kind of forever he’d seen in musicals. Kurt took a deep breath, and his heart beat faster as he turned away to open the cat food. His mother had once said anyone would be lucky if they found their forever love.

   “Yes.”

    Finn cleared his throat awkwardly, “Get a room, please.”

   “Hey, Finn? You might have to take me to school for a few days. My car’s been acting weird, so Dad is looking at it.”

   “Sure, no prob. Can you walk home on Wednesday, though? Rachel and I have a first date. Again.”

   “Sure.” Kurt smiled, “Let’s hope it works out.”

   “Yeah . . .”

 

   Wednesday rained again, and Kurt decided the weather had a personal vendetta against him. The morning had been sunny and warm, but by noon, it was overcast, the temperature had fallen to fifty, the sky broke soon after. The clouds beyond the window were heavy, swollen things. They bumped together apologetically and moved on, dopey and sorrowful in their size. By the end of school, the rain had turned steadily from slight drizzle to full-on sheet of slush.

   Thanks to the generosity of friends, he gained an umbrella and a varsity jacket, as the only one without a warm car, who would walk home after glee. He was the only one in honors French, and he had a large speech to work on. Everyone else seemed to have something, thus he was on his own. The curtain of rain divided before Rachel’s black umbrella, and Puck’s coat was warm and worth the clash with his outfit. He mused on his French speech, and wondered how much technical singing knowledge he could cram into a five-minute talk. He wanted to be detailed, but also concise, despite the fact that French was languorous.

   He couldn’t see beyond a few feet before him, and the thunder of the rain was hypnotic in its constant, still sound. He hoped there would be no lighting or thunder—Lima was fairly flat. Shadows loomed and collapsed among the haze of rain, creating mirages out of nothing. Kurt tried not to be fooled by the illusions of light and shadow, cast by the streams of water. At least their family garden would flourish after this. One shadow loomed before him and jumped and churned along the sidewalk between McKinley and the woods near his house. He blinked, eyes trying to discern what was solid and liquid, and eventually, the shapes formed into a man and a car. He looked about his father’s age, and was bent over with the hood open, attempting and failing to hide under a soaking-wet jacket. He was familiar, and Kurt finally placed him as one of his father’s customers after some mental shuffling.

   “Need any help?” Kurt called. They had to shout in order to hear each other.

   The man looked up, and blinked at Kurt a few moments, “Sure. You’re Burt’s boy, right? Kurt, is it?”

   “Yeah.” Kurt walked over, and held the umbrella out over himself and the man, “You shouldn’t be letting any of this get wet, it’s bad for the car. And you could electrocute yourself.”

   “Oh, really?”

   “Yeah. My dad’s shop is nearby, we could maybe push it.”

   The man looked up, and his eyes roved over Kurt. For some reason, it made the singer uncomfortable, “You’re a good kid, Kurt.”

   “Uh . . . thank you.” Kurt allowed himself a slight smile, and stood up straighter. His smile fell as the man continued to stare, and he looked away, “Anyway . . . you can put the car in neutral, and we’ll try pushing it together.”

   The man nodded, as Kurt turned away, “Sure.” He raised the crowbar he’d been holding, and leered, “Thank you for helping me.”

   Kurt turned to say something, and he was knocked out.

   He woke on the flipside of reality. This wasn’t happening. He was dreaming. This wasn’t happening. He was tied down. He was in a small, dreary shack-like thing. He had no clothes. No cover. He saw the pile of them, settled on the far side of the shack by the door. The man was there. He had a knife. This wasn’t happening. His iHome would go off, and he’d wake and realize it was just a nightmare. Not. Happening. The man walked close. Kurt shied back. He shut his eyes, and tried to wake himself up. The man’s breath slithered across Kurt’s skin.

   The man sank into Kurt’s body and settled under his insides like a virus. He learned about the horror of obsession and predation. He learned to close himself up, like a dying flower, and float away from his body. He learned to do as he was told without question, even if he wasn’t proud of it. These things were monstrous, unholy, impure. What he should have given freely was stolen from him, and he would never be allowed to call it back. This monster established his power and exercised it, until Kurt simply pretended he was elsewhere. Two minutes became an hour, hours became days and weeks and years. Kurt aged over the course of a few hours, in which he lost a world and numbed himself. He could no longer be normal, and where his sexuality once had windows, it was now covered with blood.

   When the man fell asleep, Kurt managed to escape.

   He came home soaked, beaten, and dressed. He pretended he’d stopped for coffee on the way home and became caught up with homework.

   He escaped into the bathroom, where he stripped, showered, and scrubbed until his skin was raw. He wrapped himself in a towel, and sat down. He stared at the flawless expanse of his own creamy skin, and he suddenly wanted to mark it, destroy it. He wasn’t worth such lovely skin. He shouldn’t have a family that loved him, a boyfriend who adored him. He shouldn’t be attractive, or have good fashion sense. Because he’d done things he never should have. Someone else had controlled his own body, stolen from him, left his heart to rot.

   He raked his fingers across his skin, until angry red scratches slashed across his arms. When it wasn’t enough, he dug in with a razorblade, let his veins leak, allowed the rusty, sharp scent to fill up his head so he’d cut deeper, harder, faster.

   He went to bed. Kurt was still awake when his alarm sounded at six am.

   His body throbbed.

 

   School, breakfast with his family, glee club. They were all the same, but Kurt was irrevocably different. He soon fell into the routine of pretense, and he found he could fake strength easily, with a razor in his pocket and regular breaks to open his skin. He found that it was easy to throw himself at schoolwork, singing, dance. He worked hard, as a distraction from the fear, the pain, the disgust with himself. He wouldn’t miss a beat, despite the comfort that had been yanked from under him.

   Yet somehow, he couldn’t believe the praise from his father and step-mother when he made a straight four-point-oh fourth quarter. Singing felt empty. Choreography felt like cardboard. Musicals lost their wonder. He distanced himself from his friends, and from Blaine. They soon learned not to ask, after too many confrontations and fights. Kurt was perfecting the art of avoidance, but the change was so subtle, no one detected it. He could easily make an excuse about Nationals, school, working on his singing voice, and they would leave him alone. It was too painfully easy to close himself off, and pretend no one cared for him.

   The cuts on his arms grew, until he had no space left. So he moved onto his legs, his stomach. He wore long sleeves, despite the hot May weather, and pretended it wasn’t strange. For PE, he began taking showers after everyone else left. No one asked any questions—Kurt would avoid them all, anyhow.

   He wouldn’t let Blaine squeeze his arms, pull off his jacket, run hands under his shirt. He barely kissed his boyfriend anymore, preferring instead to hold hands or take a walk. Blaine noticed, but said nothing of it, Kurt knew. He would simply continue to pretend, and wait for Blaine to break up with him. It was easier this way. He could no longer enjoy sex, because it pulled back memories of that rainy afternoon. Kurt hated caging this wonderful person with his rape.

   The one place he found joy was in Coco, who loved him regardless. She would crawl into his bed, purring, and he’d pet her and give away all his secrets. She was the only one who knew, and it was easy to confess his troubles to no one.

   Sometimes Kurt would nightmare, and the memories would play like some dreadful horror film. It became passive, faraway, and it was some other boy in his place. And sometimes, the revulsion would hold him close and smother, shock, nauseate. He would always wake from these dreams shaking, and he would sit up and cut. The pain was the only way he could discern he was safe, because he had control over it. No one else would own his body, and he could do what he wanted with it. Anything to anchor him back into reality, where his car was fixed and he’d never walk home alone again.

 

   They were dancing, dancing, holding each other close. Blaine’s room was spacious, and Kurt found himself feeling small. The bedroom was rich, with high rising windows and a large bed. Blaine held him close in a hug, as they danced slow, swaying in time to the music. There was no speaking, and Kurt allowed the wall to remain, hiding the best of himself away so he could protect Blaine. The slightly shorter boy leaned in, and kissed Kurt softly on the lips. He inhaled, exhaled, drew back to stare. Kurt was unable to make eye contact this closely, so he opted for watching Blaine’s nose, instead.

   “You’ve been acting weird, lately.”

   Kurt’s eyes dropped to Blaine’s collarbone, “I have?”

   “Don’t you play coy. What is it?”

   He blinked, looked away, “Nothing.”

   “It is something. Please tell me.”

   Kurt shook his head, “Stop worrying about me.”

   “Is it Nationals? I’m sure you guys will be fine.”

   “No . . .”

   “Then what, babe?”

   Kurt remained silent. Blaine sighed, pulled Kurt close again, rested his sharp chin over the other boy’s shoulder. Kurt closed his eyes, and felt too warm. He was dressed simply, a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, but it was too much cover for seventy-degree weather. Blaine ran a hand through Kurt’s hair gently, and the taller boy sighed. He knew Blaine was ever-patient. He would draw out the suspense, wait for Kurt to crack and tell him. It wasn’t going to happen.

   The track switched over to the next. Kurt drew in breath, leaned back to stare at Blaine, as the opening notes for Candles by Hey Monday filled the room. It was hard to breathe, and he was pulling away, pulling away, unable to face his boyfriend any longer. Blaine allowed it, and waited patiently for Kurt to say something. Kurt opted for closing his eyes, allowing a few tears to leak out. He was tempted to sit on the bed for the sake of sitting, but he wouldn’t dare. He was pushing things already, being in the same room with Blaine and a bed. And the music, how it weighed on him. This wasn’t fair. He couldn’t ever possibly tell Blaine.

   _Couldn't finish what you started, / only darkness still remains._

   “What’s wrong, baby?”

   Kurt opened his eyes, and shook his head, “Please stop.”

   “St—stop what?”

   “I don’t want this tenderness, this caring . . . I don’t deserve it.”

   _Blow the candles out, / looks like a solo tonight._

   “Of course you do.” Blaine stepped close.

   Kurt stepped away, “No. I don’t.”

   He was bewildered, and he took yet another step closer, reached across, dragged a finger down Kurt’s cheekbone, “And why not?”

   “I’m not telling you. You’re smothering me.”

 _You're invisible, / invisible to me. / My wish is coming true, / erase the memory of your face._

   Blaine dropped his hand, “I see.”

   Kurt took yet another step back, “I love you. You know I do.”

“Yeah. I love you, too.”

“But . . .”

 _Blow the candles out._

“But?”

  _Looks like a—_

“I can’t do this anymore.”

 _—solo tonight_  
   It was Blaine’s turn to step away, “Oh.”

   Kurt nodded, turned around, folded his arms around himself. The song was tinkling out, the last notes of the vocalist fading away. It sat between them, as a barrier, and Kurt walked away.

   _Looks like a solo tonight, / but I think I'll be alright._

 

   “You broke up with Blaine? _Why_?”

   Kurt looked away from Mercedes, and dug chopsticks into his Chinese takeout, “Because.”

   “Because?”

   “It wasn’t working out.”

   He could feel his best friend’s eyes drill into the side of his face, but he didn’t look up, “But I thought you loved him.”

   “ . . . I still do. It’s complicated.”

   “Then, do you wanna tal—”

   “No.”

   Mercedes tugged on Kurt’s shoulder, and he at last looked at her face. He still made no eye contact, instead focusing on her forehead. She sighed, “You never want to talk about anything. You never look in my eyes, anymore. Whatever it is, you need to tell someone. Please look at me, Kurt.”

   “I am.”

   She narrowed her eyes, cupped his chin, forced him to make eye contact with her, “Now you are.”

   He bit his lip, and sighed, “I don’t want to tell you.”

   “Why not?”

   “I . . . I don’t want to.”

   “But something did happen?”

   Kurt closed his eyes, and sighed, “Yes.”

   She nodded, and released his face. He opened his eyes, and bowed his head, hacking at his food with disinterest. She didn’t say anything more, and silence stretched between them. It was something Kurt liked about his best friend—she never pushed harder than was needed. She pressed like edging in, coaxing, cajoling. She would never ask straight out what happened to him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone to know, but it was heavy on him. He was losing everything. Blaine, his talent. Himself.

   They ate in silence, and the topic vanished away as Mister Hummel came in, and they told him about the project they were working on for glee. Of all the people he could fool, his father was the easiest. Father-son talk of school, extracurriculars, sports and cars, overlapped Kurt’s sudden distance. Burt had noticed, but he said nothing. Finn had tried several times to talk to his stepbrother, but Kurt sidestepped and dodged and avoided. Carole noticed, but she, like Mercedes, wasn’t forceful. Sometimes, he wished his family would notice the Niquil he popped by night, the water he drank by day, to combat the dehydration of his sinuses. It would be an excuse for them to come right out and ask if Kurt had a problem, intervene, because drugs were something substantial.

   His visage was beginning to crack, but Kurt was unwilling to shatter it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

   Later that day, they had worked out the kinks of the song, and they were sitting in Kurt’s bedroom, catching up on _Burn Notice_ through the computer. They both enjoyed spy shows, and it was one of the things they had first found in common. Coco switched between them, demanding attention, and both teenagers were charmed by her fickle sweetness. Kurt was glad for the distraction. Still, Mercedes would watch him carefully—he could sense it. Between episodes, the click of the mouse was hollow, and the silence made his heart beat too fast, too fast. Watching the show was like lead, each episode seemed to last for eternity, until it would end and he’d tense in preparation for a talk that he knew was inevitable. But nothing. Mercedes remained quiet.

   She stayed for dinner, and he was glad for the distraction of small talk. Easier to distract with friends and frivolous subjects. He would let no one close to his heart, would close off his soul, avoid dangerous emotions, words, gestures. His parents asked Mercedes about her own family, attending church, the project she and Kurt had for glee club. Kurt discussed his French speech and how well it went, a history project he had. Finn was all football, girls, Rachel—typical things. It was distant, it was easy, he maintained his secrets. He was able to slip away from the people he loved the most. They would be safe from his horror, his pain. They would never know. They deserved not to know. He knew the rapist should be caught, but Kurt hadn’t seen him around. He would simply let it die.

   But his loved ones wouldn’t let him fade, would they? They would notice and care and ask, force him to say something, right? Right?

   He wasn’t sure what he wanted, anymore.

   After dinner, Kurt and Mercedes sat out on the porch, among night air and velvety black sky and crickets. Kurt was too warm, in a long-sleeved jacket, but he tried his best to hide it. Mercedes leaned against his shoulder, as their legs rocked the porch swing. It felt like Kurt was on the ocean, and he found memories conjured up of when he was a child, and just he and his father had taken a trip to Florida. They had seen Disney World, had taken a boat ride, where the waves, the sun, the slosh of water, all rocked Kurt to perfect and blissful sleep.

   “Aren’t you hot?”

   Kurt opened his eyes, and sighed, “Yeah.”

   “Why do you keep wearing winter clothes?”

   Kurt said nothing.

   “It has to do with this issue, doesn’t it?”

   Kurt pulled away, suddenly, and stood. He made to walk away, but Mercedes grabbed his arm. He flinched and hissed, yanked his arm away. Mercedes was still holding onto the coat, and Kurt felt it slide off. He froze. Night air washed over his bare arm.

   “K—Kurt. What . . .”

   He remained frozen, as softly, her hand traced the cuts, the scars. Some were fresh from that evening, and they still ached as she touched them. He bowed his head, and his vision distorted and waved, dark spots soaked into the wooden porch. Slowly, he sat down, and folded his hands. He was silent, and simply waited for Mercedes to say something.

   “Please tell me.”

   He took a deep breath, and buried his face in his hands, “Wh—when . . . I . . . I was—” He stopped, inhaled, “I—I was—I was walking home from school, that day. Th—there was a man. H—he kidnapped me, and . . . h—he . . .” He fell into sobbing, unable to say more. Mercedes pulled him into a hug, accurately guessing the rest. It explained the distance, as well as the break-up with Blaine.

   “D—don’t tell anyone. Please.”

   “You need help.”

   “I don’t want help. I want to just be left alone, okay?”

   “There’s plenty of other people it’s happened to. You need to be brought back to normal.”

    He just cried, and Mercedes held him. She decided she would talk to Miss Pillsbury the next day.

   Above them, the constellations of the universe rotated, and Mercedes felt so very small.

 

   It was a world of counselors, confessions, medication. He discovered the buzz of Prozac, the awkwardness of therapists, the lull of hospitalization. He spent several days in the psyche ward, and he hated the looks his family gave him, the pity of his friends, the way Blaine avoided touching him. He asked that only his family learned of the rape. No explanation was offered to friends, teachers, Blaine, about why Kurt cut, why he was so damaged. He made the excuse of clinical depression, and his therapists told him it would be a while before he was ready to shout his demons to the world. Still, when he returned from hospitalization with bandaged arms, hopped up on Prozac, everyone stared.

   New Directions said nothing. They simply hugged him.

 

   Weather turned much more fair, and Nationals loomed over them. The last lazy days before summer, exams, goodbyes and well-wishes filled up McKinley, where Kurt watched and wondered if he had the ability to love that much, again. Dalton let out, and Blaine began attending the final practices with the New Directions. They were all excited for the wonder of New York, and the ecstasy was palpable for weeks. They exalted a city map in the choir room, where it was fawned over, poked at, doted on. Kurt found that he couldn’t care, though he pretended. Blaine watched Kurt, silent as ever, and tried to understand.

   The Monday before Nationals, everyone was nervous and chatty. Mister Schue slapped the board, before scrawling the word ‘storytelling’ across it.

   “This week, I thought we’d focus on something special. The song as a narrative.” He turned to face them, and capped the marker, “The reason why, is because this right here is the reason we sing. All music tells a story. It’s why we relate to it, and what makes a musician tick. I want you each to find a song that tells your story, and share it with us. Any questions?”

   A chorus of voices raised, and Kurt listened to the typical banter of his friends. Blaine was sitting to his left, Mercedes to his right. Neither said anything, and Kurt wondered at the strangeness of that. They were both talkative people, after all. He knew it pertained to him. Neither of them had been the same for the last several weeks, and it was all him, all his fault. The previous day, his therapist had suggested he sing about his ordeals. He wasn’t sure about sharing all of his story. He wasn’t sure he wanted his friends to see those parts.

   But something made him raise his hand.

   “Yes Kurt?”

   “C—Can I talk to you outside, Mister Schue?”

   “Sure.” The teacher beckoned, and Kurt followed. In the hallway, Kurt rubbed a healing arm, and leaned against a wall. Will watched his student with concern, “What is it?”

   “I . . . cut . . . because . . . something awful happened to me.”

   “Oh . . . I see.”

   “I want to tell everyone. But I dunno if I can do it. I want to do it. I want the support.”

   “Hey, I’m sure you can.” Mister Shcue reached across, squeezed Kurt’s shoulder, “We all have our demons. Some of us just have larger ones than others. Just know you’re not alone, whatever it is.”

   “ . . . I . . . was . . . sexually assaulted. Walking home from school.” The tears came. Will hugged him.

   “I’m sorry. That is awful.”

   “Th—thanks . . .”

   “Just know that no one is going to judge you. You were just in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

   “I know . . . I just don’t know what to do. But I think I’d like to sing.”

   “Of course.”

   So the piano was pulled up, and the attention of New Directions was called on Kurt. He was quiet, as he sat down before the instrument, and everyone fell silent. Here was this boy, who where before he was positive, flamboyant, strong, had become ghostly, distant, faded. He regarded the piano, before he turned his eyes on them, looking for the world like he needed an explanation for the things that had been done to him. He sighed, and pressed a few keys. It was easier to speak to the piano, so he did.

   “I know I’ve been weird, for a while, now. And I’m sorry. And I know you all know I was hospitalized for cutting. And  . . . that’s what I’m here for. To tell you why.” He sighed, plinked a few more keys, “On that day, when I walked from school, and I borrowed Rachel’s umbrella, and Puck’s coat, there was a man. His car was broken down. I offered to help him, and he complied. He . . . knocked me out. When I woke up, I was in this remote place . . . and this man . . . r—ra—” He took a deep breath, “—raped me.” He breathed as people gasped. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t dare look up. He opened his hands and rested the backs of them against the keys of the piano, and watched the lines of his palms. He couldn’t say more, so he simply sat, calming himself so his voice would be even enough to sing.

   “I’m sorry, if I’ve hurt any of you. I have a song that describes these feelings. It—it’s _horrible_ , and I’d like to let it out.”

   Silence was dead, as Kurt turned his hands over, and began to play.

   _“Something always brings me back to you. / It never takes too long. / No matter what I say or do / I'll still feel you here / 'til the moment I'm gone. / You hold me without touch. / You keep me without chains.”_  
     Kurt closed his eyes, as he sang, and the tears rolled away off his cheeks. He sang softly, beautifully, painfully, speaking his heart.  
   _“Set me free, leave me be. / I don't wanna fall another moment into your gravity. / Here I am / and I stand / so tall, / just the way I'm supposed to be. / But you're on to me / and all over me.”_

   The rape was soaked into him, inside his head, his heart, his vision. He knew it was going to be a long time, before he would be able to give himself away. He was tainted. He didn’t deserve someone like that. The whole school could look at him like he was weak, more of an outcast, a loner. He would look the opposite way and wear his scars. He was damaged, he was broken, but, _but_ , he decided, he would pour out his soul to whomever asked. It was the least he could do, to share his pain. There were many others like him, he was part of a statistic. They would find the man, prosecute him. And always, always, Kurt would look Blaine’s way, out of love, hope, and for strength.  
   _“I live here on my knees / as I / try to make you see that you're / everything I think I need here on the ground. / But you're neither friend nor foe / though I / can't seem to let you go. / The one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me / doooo-ooooown!”_

    He bowed his head. The music softened. With him, his friends, his love, breathed, lived, were sad.  
   _“You're on to me, on to me, and all over . . .”  
_    The last notes, the last words, suspended themselves, and at last, boy and piano fell silent.

   There was the clatter of chairs, and Kurt was held by an entire show choir. There was comfort, whispers, tears, and drowning in a music room. Hands found Kurt’s, and he followed the arms back to Blaine, who offered a watery smile, stepped forward, and allowed Kurt to cry into him.

   He staggered, cracked and perfect, somewhere towards becoming whole again.

 

   Years later, Kurt would look back, and wonder at the complexity, joy, cruelty of life. He was married now, to his high school sweetheart. They had a daughter, and Kurt made love to his husband without fear, out of love, happiness, and joy.

   He had walked away lucky, and so very much alive.

   What more could he ask for?


End file.
